oof

"You looked like you were about to punch somebody."

That’s what my brother said as we sat together, replaying the video from my award ceremony.

And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

In the footage, I’m gripping the trophy so tightly my knuckles look pale. My eyes are narrowed, not in the soft squint of someone smiling, but in the tense, hard focus of someone stewing. My lips aren’t stretched into the celebratory grin; they’re pressed into a thin, almost angry line. I don’t even look like I want to be there.

Because in that moment, I didn’t. I was angry. Well, angry isn't the right word. Regretful. Disappointed.

Fourth in the nation.

Out of hundreds. Out of all the people who fought for this moment, I was fourth.

That’s supposed to be impressive. I know that. Objectively, I know that. But all I could think as I walked across the stage was:

Fourth. Fourth place.

It didn’t sound like a triumph. It sounded like a failure in disguise.

Because fourth place meant that three teams worked harder.

Three teams had stronger presentations.

Three teams, in the eyes of the judges, simply deserved it more.

And what haunted me was that they probably did.

Instead of enjoying my moment on stage, all I could think of was: what if we rehearsed one hour longer? What if I had checked the projector once more? What if I didn't let us take a break?

That night, as I scrolled through Instagram, I saw teams celebrating with seventh place trophies, beaming over tenth place medals, hugging each other over finalist ribbons that didn’t even place. I saw real joy in their faces filled with laughter, tears, pride. They weren’t pretending. They weren’t embarrassed by their place. They were proud.

And I kept wondering: why can’t I feel that?

Why can’t I let myself celebrate fourth?

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way. It’s a pattern I’ve carried with me through every speech and debate competition, every writing contest, every goal I’ve ever set. Whenever I fall short of first, I feel hollowed out, like I’ve lost something. And when I do win, when I do get first, there’s a brief flicker of mild relief. I don’t celebrate. I don’t jump up and down. I just breathe and move on, already shifting my gaze to the next thing.

Because first place has become my baseline.

It’s no longer the reward. It’s the requirement.

And when I really sit with that, I start to feel guilty.

I wonder if I’ve grown arrogant. Entitled. Ungrateful. There are so many people who would love to stand where I stood, who would have clutched that fourth place trophy with tears in their eyes. And here I am, clutching it like it’s not enough.

For a long time, I thought this mindset was what made me ambitious. I thought never being satisfied was a necessary condition of success. That the gnawing hunger was the fire that would keep me moving forward. And maybe, to some degree, that’s true. This drive has pushed me to work harder, to think sharper, to aim higher.

But I’m starting to realize that it’s also slowly unraveling me.

When you think like this, you leave no room to feel proud. You don’t get to experience actual pride or joy, only temporary relief that you didn’t fail.

That’s a lonely place to be.

I don’t want to live my life constantly chasing a moving finish line. I don’t want to stand on stages holding trophies that feel like disappointments.

So I’m going to try to live with both: ambition and gratitude.

Hunger and contentment.

The drive to do better and the grace to love where I am.

I can still aim for first, I always will, but I can hold space to celebrate fourth. I can hold the trophy without crushing it.

Cheers,

emma